Lost in My Mind

Am I okay?

Approaching three months since my mom died, I guess so.  But I don't really know.  I feel more like myself, like I did before January 23, 2019, when I was sitting right where I am this morning - at Honest Coffee Roasters, having a cup of coffee - when Tracy called me from Birmingham, AL, and told me to call NHC Place because something had happened with mom.

Have I properly grieved?  I don't know.  Am I still grieving?  Yes.  Am I appropriately sad?  Not sad enough?  Too sad?  I don't know.  There's no blueprint for all of this.  That's something I've discovered.

Everyone handles death - true loss - differently.  That's something I'm learning firsthand, for sure.  And - this part is important - there is no right or wrong way, there's just your way.

My way to process the grief after my mom's death is not Tracy's way.  It's not Alice's way or Kaitlyn's way or Matthew's way.  It's also not J.P.'s way or Joe's way.  And that's as it should be, I think.

What worries me, though, is that I've become so immersed in the day to day details of my life - partly out of necessity and partly as a defense mechanism - that I'm not sure I'm actually processing my grief.  It may be that I'm postponing it by compartmentalizing my emotions and focusing on work, coaching baseball and worrying about how others in my family are doing.  J.P., for sure, but also Tracy, Alice, Kaitlyn, Matthew, etc.

I'm coaching 30 boys on three baseball teams.  Lots of e-mails to parents, roster management for my two 11-12 year old teams, practices and games.  And I love every minute of it.  It keeps me busy.

My work, too, has been so busy.  And as a family law attorney, so many of my clients demand so much of me emotionally.  I think I've willingly given even more of that part of myself to them as of late, probably unconsciously so I won't have as much left in my emotional tank, so to speak, to spend on the loss of my mom.  That makes me feel guilty sometimes.  A lot of the time, actually.

In other words, am I deliberately focusing my attention any my emotions on everything but my own feelings about losing my mom?  Am I avoiding dealing with my own sadness?  Have I put my sadness in a box - compartmentalized it (there's that word again) - only to have to deal with it later?  I just don't know.

I've avoided - consciously or unconsciously - visiting NHC Place or stopping by my mom's house.  I don't think that's healthy, although maybe it is temporarily.

I guess what worries me is that when the music stops and I have some down time, am I going to be okay?  I think so.  I hope so, too.

Having a Catch

This morning, before church, the boys and I drove a few blocks to Belmont U. to throw the baseball while Jude went to the grocery store.  We parked on 15th and walked into a large, square green space between the relatively new law school and the relatively new multimedia building.  In other words, we were right where the tennis courts used to be be before Belmont began growing into the monolith it is now.

The boys got out of my truck with their baseball gloves as I grabbed my glove, a few baseballs and a bat out of the back.  We ambled across the street, the three of us, content to be together on a Sunday morning.  We stretched a bit, then I had J.P. and Joe walk 15 or 20 feet away from me.  Then, I started throwing the ball to them, alternating, two to Joe, two to J.P.

We didn't say much.  We just threw the ball back and forth, although I occasionally quietly corrected one of the boys' form.  On most throws, the "thwack" of the ball hitting right in the pocket of one of our gloves echoed between the two building.  Sweet, sweet music to my ears.

I backed them up, bit by bit, until we were long tossing the baseball back and forth.  Regular long toss helps with arm strength.  Nice, easy long toss throws.  I've always done that with J.P., and Joe, too, and I think it's partially responsible for the fact that both of them have strong and accurate arms, more so than most of the other boys their age.

So, here's the really cool part of all of this.  Toward the end of our throwing session, J.P. and Joe were equally distant from me as we were long tossing.  Sure, I had to take something off my long toss throws to Joe, and for the most part, I tried to throw the ball a little lower to his glove side so the catch would be a bit easier.  He caught them all and with a quick crow up and concentrated effort, he was able to throw the ball accurately lot me without my having to move toward him.

Maybe that's too technical, but the point is that for probably the first time, I had both boys throwing with me - long tossing - next to each other.  If not as equals, as peers.  It was another one of this "snapshot moments" for me as a father, particularly one who loves baseball as much as I do.

As I've always said, "what's better than having a catch with your son?"  Nothing, right?

Well, it turns out there is something better.  Having a catch with both of your sons.

The Roar of the Tiger

It's Saturday morning and thanks to overnight and early morning rain, the boys' baseball and soccer games this morning have been postponed.  I'm at Portland Brew having a cup of coffee while Jude sleeps in and the boys play in their iPads.

I read a Rick Reilly piece this morning from the Sports Illustrated Vault that got me thinking and reminiscing about my mom.  The piece was on Tiger Woods' first victory at the Masters, when he lapped the field and won by a record 12 strokes, 21 years ago today.

Here's a link to Reilly's piece -

https://www.si.com/vault/1997/04/21/225867/strokes-of-genius-overpowering-a-storied-course-and-a-stellar-field-tiger-woods-heralded-a-new-era-in-golf-with-an-awesome-12-shot-victory-in-the-masters

21 years ago.  It's crazy that it was that long ago, when I stop to think about it.  I was 31 years old and Mark and I had just started our law practice.  I was recently divorced from Jude and, if memory serves, hadn't started dating Jude yet.  J.P. and Joe, the North and South Poles of my life today, weren't even a thought in my mind.

And my mom was 58 years old, in her prime.

My mom loved Tiger Woods.  She didn't love golf - not really, other than for the sheer excitement and drama of a close finish in one of the majors - but she loved Tiger Woods.  I had completely forgotten about that until I checked my phone this morning and saw that he was 1 shot off the lead after 36 holes at the Masters.

Whenever Tiger was in contention at a tournament - and it seems like that was virtually every weekend in the late 90's and early to mid-2000's - she had the television on and watched golf on Saturdays, and especially Sundays, while she went about her business at home.  It's funny and I used to kid her about this, but she would have four, maybe five televisions in the house on, all tuned to golf, and she would keep up with how Tiger was doing as she went room to room.  She stayed busy, straightening up the house, paying bills, etc., but the television was always on.

Often times she would call me or I would call her multiple times if Tiger was playing in one of the final groups at a major on Sunday afternoon.  At that point, I think she stopped what she was doing and watched intently.  She absolutely adored Tiger Woods and reveled in every important victory of his career.  That, to me, was proof of his impact on the game of golf.  If Tiger Woods could my mom a golf fan, he had serious crossover appeal.

It's no secret and I've said it here often that I got my love so sports, for better or worse, from my mom.  One of the things I miss the most, and have missed the most, is talking sports with her.  Local sports, college sports, professional sports.  Really, any and all sports.  It was the currency of our conversations, a language we spoke to each other that, in some ways, only we understood completely.

I wish I could have talked to my mom about Rick Byrd's retirement as basketball coach at Belmont University.  I think she would have liked the Casey Alexander hire.

I wish I could have talked to my mom about Vanderbilt's decision to fire Bryce Drew and hire Jerry Steakhouse.  We would have had many conversations about that subject.  My mom would have hated - I mean, hated - the see Vanderbilt's basketball team go winless in the SEC this season.  That would have driven her crazy.

My mom would have loved Tennessee's run in the NCAA tournament.  Even though she wasn't a Tennessee basketball fan, not by any stretch, she should have liked Rick Barnes.  She would have loved Grant Williams, I think.  Admiral Schofield, I'm not so sure about.  She usually had one Tennessee basketball player she didn't like and it probably would have been the Admiral.  Still, she would have pulled for Tennessee in the NCAA tournament, in large part because she knew how excited I was about their success.

My mom would have had an opinion on Magic Johnson suddenly stepping down as the Lakers' President this week.  She would have wanted to know what I thought about Jeannie Buss's decision to fire Luke Walton.

As I recall, my mom was enthralled by Steph Curry's emergence as a star for Davidson in the NCAA tournament in 2008.  I think she would have been a big fan of the Golden State Warriors, too.

So many times, my mom would call me at then end of a work day for me, just to get my thoughts on something that had happened in the sports world.  It might be a local story or it might be a national story.  As I packed up my things at work or as I was on my way home, we discussed the sports story of the day.  It's just what we did.

Damn, what I wouldn't give for one more of those conversations with my mom.

I'm doing okay, I think, probably better than okay, under the circumstances.  Still, I'm finding that one of the times I really miss her is when there's a big sports story or event that is unfolding.  In those times, I'm reminded how special and unique of a woman and mother she was and of how she instilled in me a love of all sports.  A love that I've instilled in my boys, too.

Win the Masters for your dad this weekend, Tiger, and win it for my mom, too.

Mt. Leconte

No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man. 

     - Heraclitus


Last Tuesday, on a cold East Tennessee morning, J.P. and I pulled into the parking lot of the Rainbow Falls Trailhead, set to begin our hike to Mt. Leconte.  There was only one other car in the parking lot.

I was a little nervous, mostly for him, but truthfully, a little for me, too.  I wasn't sure how J.P. would handle the hike given that he'd never attempted one close to this distance (6.7 miles to the top) or of this difficulty.

He and I had jokingly built up the idea of hiking to Mt. Leconte to the point where we had decided he would be a man if he made it.  He began to take the idea seriously and reminded me several times over the preceding weekend that he was about to become a man.  I laughed and played along.  

I added a light weight jacket because it really was cold, stopped by the restroom and off we went.  Although I was wearing gloves, my fingertips were so cold they were hurting.

It had been 25 years since I last hiked up to Mt. Leconte on the Rainbow Falls Trail.  As we  hiked alongside a meandering creek strewn with borders, I was nostalgic as I thought about the years lost to time.  I thought about what my life was like the last time I walked the same path, likely by myself, in my mid-twenties.  So much had changed since then.

I thought about my mom, of course, and how much I missed her.

As we warmed up during the first mile, I took off my jacket and put in it my backpack.  J.P. and I settled into the comfortable rhythm that only hikers on a strenuous hike know.  Lost in our own thoughts with the reverie broken every so often by a few words exchanged about the trail or the scenery.  I quickly realized, with relief, that he was a natural hiker and better yet, the perfect hiking companion.

We rested a time or two as or legs adjusted to the continuous uphill climb.  After an hour and a half or so on the trail, we arrived at Rainbow Falls.  The view was spectacular, just as I remembered it.  We talked with a father and son from Alabama at the falls and asked one of them to take a photograph of us.

After we admired Rainbow Falls, I asked J.P. if he wanted to keep going up to Mt. Leconte or if wanted to hike back down the trail.  Without hesitation, he told me he wanted to keep going.  I smiled.  That's my boy, I thought.  And off we went.

Walking behind me, J.P. asked me if when she was younger, Meemaw liked to hike or do activities outdoors.  I smiled to myself, as I knew this was a signal from J.P. that he wanted - needed - to talk with me about my mom.  For next hour or so, we slowed our pace a bit and I told him stories about her.

I told him that while my mom had never been much or a hiker, she had started playing tennis in her mid-30's.  She used to play tennis with our neighbors and close friends at the court across the street from our house.  She also played doubles for several years at the Brentwood Dolphin Club in a women's league.

Then, transitioning, I told him how happy my mom was when I told her - at Evelyn and Bill Pilkington's house - that Jude was pregnant with him.  I told him how much she used to love keeping him during the week, occasionally, when Uncle Carley (our nanny) was sick or out of town.  I told him how proud of him she was, always.

Turning to catch his eye, I told J.P. how angry and frustrated I was when we first realized she had Alzheimer's disease.  I told him how unfair I thought that was after all she had done for so many others during her life.  Looking at him more closely, I told J.P. that my faith in God had been tested - that I'd never lost it, but it surely had been tested - while I tried to come to terms with her decline health and loss of quality of life.  I told him that for a while, I was angry with God, which was wrong of me.

I talked about how hard the last week of my mom's life had been on me.  I also told him how sad I had been, but that I knew it was okay to be sad.  I told him I still was sad sometimes - a lot of the time - but that it was getting better.

And then I told him what I thought my mom taught me about faith and strength and family.

Faith in God keeps you going when all about you is lost.  I told him I believed - and I do believe this - the that my mom is in heaven and that she is with God.  She is watching all of us, with pride, and looking out for us.  Maybe even putting in a good word for us when needed.  Her spirit is here, with us every day in the form of goodness, happiness and memories.

I told him about all of the adversity my mom had seen in her life, from losing her husband and being widowed at age 31 with two young children to losing both of her sisters to caring for her mother and two aunts in their declining years to working nights as a nurse at Baptist Hospital to losing her memory and dealing with her declining physical health the last year before she died.  I told him that she never companied, never stopped smiling and never, ever stopped loving all of us.

I told him she taught me that you get up, every day, put your feet on the floor, take a few steps and make it through that day.  Then, you do it again the next day, and the next day, and on and on, and that dealing with your grief gets a little bit easier - incrementally - every day.  She told me that very thing on more than one occasion when I asked her how she dealt with losing her husband and her sisters.

I told him how important family was to my mom.  I told him she had taught me that you can always depend on your family, the no one is more important in your life than your family.  I told him how spending that last week together at the hospital had reminded me of the importance of family and that part of me felt like that was my mom's intent.  She wasn't going to leave - or die - until she knew we understood for a final time how important it is to strengthen the ties that bind our family together.

It was a talk we needed to have.  A talk I needed to have and I think that he needed to have, with me. And I'll never forget it.

On the last half of our assent up the Rainbow Falls Trail, the temperature dropped.  We began to see more ice on the trail.  I took the lead and when we came to icy patches of rocks, I reached back for J.P. and he took my hand, without complaint, so I could guide him across to a safer footfall.  The symbolism wasn't lost on me because in 10 or 15 years, it's likely that he'll be doing the same for me.

The terrain changed as we approached the end of the trail and summit of Mt. Leconte.  It was just as I remembered it with evergreens lining the trail on both sides.

Finally, we arrived at the summit - at Mt. Leconte Lodge (where, in a different lifetime, I stayed overnight on a few occasions).  Unfortunately, the Lodge was closed, as the helicopter was delivering supplies every 15 or 20 minutes to prepare for the season's opening the following week.  It was interesting to watch the large, red and white helicopter hover overhead with propane tanks dangling beneath it.

We quickly lost interest, however, when we realized that every time the helicopter arrived, the temperature dropped 10 degrees or so due to the wind generated by the rotating blades that kept it aloft.  It was hard to eat our lunch with the helicopter hovering over our heads because it was so damn cold.  We ate quickly and talked briefly with an older gentleman and fellow hiker (Larry).  I used the latrine and we hiked to the Bullhead Trail to began our descent.

The fire damage on the Bullhead Trail was readily visible.  The magnitude of the devastation was immense even more than a year after the fire.  So many beautiful, old growth trees lost, with blackened dead trunks left huddled together on the mountainside.  It was surreal.  In places, the trail was blocked with fallen trees.  We navigated through or around the deadfalls and made really good time on the way down the trail.

At long last, around 3:30 p.m., we arrived at the parking lot at the Rainbow Falls trailhead, tired but satisfied.  I was so proud of J.P.  Throughout what turned out to be a 14 + mile hike - and a difficult one at that - he never complained.  He rarely needed to rest.  He hiked like a boss on the trail..  Truthfully, he was the perfect hiking companion for me.

And that, I think, is what was kind of cool.  For maybe the first time, J.P. and I were almost like peers.  Companions, more than father and son.  Sure that part was there, but he was an individual keeping up with me on the trail with no apparent difficulty.  That made me proud of him.  Very proud.  It also made me anticipate, with happiness, our relationship in years to come.

So, J.P. and I spent a day together hiking up to Mt. LeConte and back down the mountain, a day we needed to spend together.  It was a day I'll never forget.

Way to go, J.P.!  Know that on this day, you impressed your dad.  I'm proud of you.